Ponder
by yumi michiyo
Summary: Sango's thoughts drift under Miroku's very capable hands. Oneshot. Sango/Miroku. Rated for allusions to adult themes. Fluffy introspective.


"Tired, Sango?"

She gave up denying it. "Yes, Houshi-sama."

"If I may." He was already behind her, pulling back his sleeves; she consented with a brief nod. Without looking back, she knew he would be smiling.

Their little sessions had started little more than a month ago, after a tough battle had left her black and blue all over and far too sore to move. Miroku had helped her ease her muscles back into functionality with her permission, knowing he would not betray the trust she placed in him.

These days, Miroku had grown bolder and his asking for permission had become a mere formality.

Warm hands gently brushed her hair to one side and rested awhile on her shoulders, featherlight; his thumbs pressed into the muscle of her back and began rubbing in circles.

Tension began to bleed out of the rigid lines of her body and she sighed.

_She hates his hands._

They are deceptively ordinary; large muscular hands, even for a man. The left bears a whitish scar across the palm, extending from the middle and curling, serpentine, around his wrist. She remembers the injury; a trailing vine from a vicious plant youkai from which he had been unable to withdraw fast enough. He had been busy pulling a branch off her prone body at the time.

Sango might have felt guilty he had not groped her with the undamaged right hand afterwards.  
  
His thumb slipped into a particularly sore spot; she gasped involuntarily and his ministrations stilled.

"I'm alright," she said hastily. "It felt good – I guess I'm more beat up than I thought..."

The soothing pressure resumed with a low chuckle. "Lovely Sango, you should know by now you're not made of stone."

_Of the right hand she had no idea, having never seen it without its protective glove except in the heat of battle, amidst swirling black-purple winds._

For all her loudly declared absence of feelings beyond forced camaraderie for Miroku, she still knows his hands as well as she knows her own. He has this nervous habit of clenching and unclenching his right fist (she understands). When upset, his hands tremble ever so slightly. In his sleep they twitch restlessly and she knows he is dreaming of death.

And she knows him well enough to know his hands do not go for her body automatically.  
  
He worked in silence, focused on his task; she wondered if he was aware of his skill in making women melt in his hands. His fingers probed the tender flesh on either side of her spine, carefully avoiding the jagged scar on her back without her needing to say so.

_He is no simple mindless lecher – no matter how much he acts like it. He is a healer; she has lost count of the number of times his hands had deftly tied bandages, cleaned wounds, massaged bruised muscles (and with dire threats from her, nothing else); he is a holy man; his hands wrote sutras, formed mudras, prayed for the dead; he is a compassionate soul; his hands reassured people, soothed their troubles, let them know somebody cared._

He is a man; that she is most acutely aware of. His touch leaves liquid fire on her skin (though she would rather die than admit it); his caress dispels her waking nightmares; his hand on hers calms her rage.

In her passing fantasies, Sango would envision those broad hands (free from any coverings) hefting lumber to build a home, digging rich soil, guiding a child taking its first unsteady steps, its tiny hands gripping his fingers...

... exploring her body even as her own hands explore his.

"You're very tense again all of a sudden," he observed quietly. She jumped – his breath tickled her ear and she wondered when had he gotten so close. "Is there something on your mind?"

"No," she told him. "It's nothing." She was glad the darkness prevented him from seeing her furiously blushing face.

He let it go, as she knew he would, returning to his kneading of the tightly wound and bunched lower torso. She exhaled sharply as cathartic pain shot up her spine; the monk had very talented hands indeed.

Considering how much time his hands spent on her, she really should not have been surprised.

_Strangely enough – it must be the pleasurable sensations warming her body – Sango's thoughts drift into memory. She remembers an incident by the river, when she followed the pleasant melody of a flute to find Miroku playing the instrument. The music stopped, and he shyly put it down._

Sango had encouraged him to continue; she sat down beside him, so close she could feel the heat radiate from his robes, and closed her eyes as the haunting melody washed over her – my father, and his father before him used to play it,_ he told her later with just a touch of melancholy.  
_  
Sango sat bolt upright as one hand teasingly danced down her side; she cursed under her breath, wondering how he knew she was ticklish.

"Sorry," he said, his voice full of mirth.

She giggled. "You don't sound sorry."

"Perhaps I'm not." Miroku's fingertips traced the curve of her spine. "I don't hear you laugh enough."

In a rush, she realized his hands were no longer massaging her. He had withdrawn with the faintest of sighs; she felt the absence of his warmth keenly. But still Sango remained motionless; suspended in her own trance.

"Sango?" His voice broke through her thoughts; it sounded faintly amused. "It's late."

"Yes – thank you, Houshi-sama." She made for her sleeping roll, surprised by her sudden reluctance to leave him.

"Any time, Sango," came his reply; from the unreadable emotions in his voice, Sango wondered whether she had unknowingly thanked him for something else besides the massage.

Half-asleep, she stirred, remembering something she had forgot.

"Houshi-sama?"

"Hmm?"

"You... have very talented hands," the slayer mumbled.

Even in the dark, Miroku's eyes twinkled mischieviously.


End file.
